"Nah, it'll be too touristy," my husband complained, resisting my suggestion to visit. I'd brushed off his comments reminding him that the Maori women we'd befriended on the Routeburn Trek highly recommended Tamaki, claiming it was the most authentic Maori experience around.
Twenty-something coaches leave Rotorua daily for two evening performances 30 minutes south of town. En route, our bus driver warned passengers not to laugh, smile, stick out tongues, or mock the traditional challenge ceremony in any way; then selected a male volunteer to act as our bus' tribal "chief" for the upcoming formalities.
But we quickly realized the ‘seriousness' of the evening wasn't really expected when the bus driver told people in aisle seats to raise their arms and "paddle" our imaginary waka while window passengers repeatedly chanted "ha ha ho HEE" to scare off approaching tribes. We felt ridiculous, but participated in the silly antics.
Oddly enough, if you closed your eyes and pictured Maori warriors gliding through dark waters toward enemy territory–while "ha ha ho HEE" grew in intensity and exaggerated anger as people got into the act–it started to sound strangely realistic..and easier to imagine the intimidation others felt when Maori approached them in a time when NZ was tribal and cannibalism was practiced.
Several bad puns later we were off the bus standing outside the replica village amid a throng of tourists with cameras poised awaiting the warrior to emerge from the thatched fence. By the time he emerged half-naked with black penned images "tattooed" on his arms and face, his bulging eyes, angry tongue thrusts and weapon-wielding motions were more humorous than scary.
He thrust his spear into the air in a series of violent movements, attempting to intimidate us, then approached one of the "chiefs," placing a peace offering at his feet and pressing his nose to the chief's nose.
We had been ceremoniously welcomed, and followed the warrior into his forested village to the beat of drums. Costumed Maori were weaving, singing, sharpening spears, carving, or poi twirling in front of wooden maraes. I was drawn to the happy genuineness of Maori women.
The most authentic and enjoyable part of the evening was the concert. Songs were beautiful and haunting. Their distinctive sound, a blend of soft chants and ballad-like song, still drift through my mind. Riveting. Especially when explained in context of Maori legends and history.
Dinner followed. The traditional hangi–food cooked on hot rocks buried under the earth for several hours–was served buffet style in the huge dining room. Sitting at table 153, we were nearly last to feast on tender chicken, lamb, potatoes, coleslaw, rolls, mussels, and bread pudding.
Our parting instructions were to join hands with one another as we sang a farewell song, then rub noses with fellow companions. But my husband, dragging me by my hand, was out the door before the guy to his left tried anything of the sort.